


The Mouse and the Lion

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: The Mouse and the Lion [1]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Caring, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love Confessions, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Arthur tries not to hear Curt sniffling on the other end of the line. He bites at a fingernail, reflecting that he’s supposed to leave with Ray and the Flaming Creatures any minute, though his plans may be changing, too. He can’t very well say no to Curt, not when Curt’s suffering like this - when Curt needs Arthur. No one has ever needed Arthur before...





	1. Chapter 1

“Can I come over?” Curt asks, breathing hard. “I - I don’t want to stay here alone, and there’s no one else.”

For a moment Arthur cradles the phone silently, too rattled by the pain in Curt’s voice to answer. Curt’s not supposed to sound like that - Curt, who’s so brave and clever and funny. But Arthur can’t expect Curt to be himself so soon after Brian’s death. Arthur’s been shocked and sad, too, as have all of the Flaming Creatures. Brian’s tragic loss was all anyone could talk about since the news broke earlier. In fact, before Curt called, Ray was just on the phone with Malcolm working out the tribute the band would do at their next shows. Obviously, the setlist they had planned went up in smoke when Brian was shot. The image from the television flashes through Arthur’s mind again, making his stomach clench. 

“Of course you can come,” he tells Curt. 

“Thanks,” Curt murmurs. Arthur tries not to hear him sniffling on the other end. He bites at a fingernail, reflecting that he’s supposed to leave with Ray and the rest of the band any minute, though his plans may be changing, too. He can’t very well say no to Curt, not when Curt’s suffering like this - when Curt  _ needs  _ Arthur. No one has ever needed Arthur before. His parents didn’t; his brother had no use for him at all, and Arthur’s not even sure the Flaming Creatures need him, not really, although they  _ like  _ him, and although he tries to be useful to them. Even  _ Ray _ would be fine without Arthur, though they’ve been sleeping together since Arthur met him last autumn, after leaving home, and he’s been nice enough to let Arthur live with him when they’re not touring. They could all manage fine without Arthur. Everyone can; Arthur knows that. His own family were glad to be rid of him. What does it matter that Arthur was about to leave on tour with the Flaming Creatures? Curt’s need of Arthur is greater than theirs: it’s  _ real _ , for the first time in Arthur’s life.

“Do you still have my address?” Arthur asks. 

“I think so,” Curt says. “You’re in - uh - Brixton, right?”

“No,” Arthur replies. He supposes it’s been a while since Curt met up with him here, in Ray’s flat. Then again, Curt could be remembering the area where some other partner of his lives. Arthur doesn’t mind. “I’m not in Brixton. Here, can you write it down?”

He hears Ray dragging his suitcase across the floor of the bedroom, and dreads having to explain Curt’s imminent arrival to him. He’ll do it, though, if he must.

“I’ll remember,” Curt insists. “Long enough to get a cab, anyway.”

“All right,” Arthur says, and dictates his address. “Come whenever you can.”

“Thanks.” 

Curt hangs up, probably too stunned to speak more. It’s not surprising. Arthur might have done the same. He’s grieving, too, in a way, but he can’t compare his loss to Curt’s. Curt was so close to Brian, and only just broke up with him, if the press can be trusted. Really, Arthur’s surprised Curt was as coherent as he was. He grimaces, wondering how long it’ll take Curt to get here, and stands up to talk to Ray. 

“Who was that?” Ray asks as Arthur approaches. Arthur wishes, as he often does, that he weren’t so young and so new to everything. He and Ray are completely casual and open; Ray knows that Arthur has slept with Curt a few times - six times, to be precise. It’s  _ not  _ rubbing it in to tell Ray something he already knows, is it? And more importantly, they’ve already lost one of the suns their little scene orbits around. Surely he won’t mind Arthur helping Curt out? But the Flaming Creatures can’t afford as much support as some other, bigger acts have on tour, which is why meeting Arthur worked out so well for them. Ray  _ might  _ be angry -  _ might _ say they need Arthur after all, or resent Arthur apparently throwing him over for someone more famous - and Arthur  _ did _ invite Curt to Ray’s flat without permission…

“Curt Wild,” Arthur murmurs, swallowing his words. 

“Jesus,” Ray bursts out, “is he all right? Does he know anything more about Brian?”

So far, so good. 

“I didn’t get to interview him,” Arthur says, “but he was pretty broken up.”  _ Best to have it out at once,  _ Arthur thinks. _ It won’t be any easier if Curt shows up at the door.  _ “He asked if he could come over -”

“Now? Arthur, I was going to tell you we’re leaving.”

Arthur worries at his lip. “I’m sorry. He sounded _ terrible _ .” He stops short of saying that Ray would do the same for someone he was involved with, although it’s probably true.

“Look, I have the schedule for the tour,” Arthur says, instead. “I can take a bus and meet you tomorrow, if you want.”

Ray looks at him coldly, but relents. “Fine; don’t worry about it. We’ll talk when I get back, all right?” He turns back to his suitcase. “That is, if you’re still here.”

Arthur flushes.

“Of course I’ll be here,” he begins, before realizing how silly he must sound. He can’t know that. If Ray wouldn’t want him anymore, but Curt might?  _ Damn these things for being so complicated... _

“Look, Ray, I’m sorry to cause so much trouble…”

“Whatever,” Ray says. That brief flicker of interest when Arthur mentioned Curt has gone out of his voice, leaving behind a cool, studied indifference. That’s his  _ thing _ , or, rather, the Flaming Creatures’  _ thing _ : they’re all too knowing and detached to get excited about anything, or to show much feeling of any kind. Arthur’s learned a lot about being cool from them, but that kind of cool isn’t very helpful now, when Arthur needs to know if he might still have a future with them. Arthur brushes the fringe of his hair from his eyes, trying not to flinch, as Ray says, “I have to go.”

He drags his suitcase to the front door. Arthur bites his lip. 

“Take care, will you? And - give my regards to everyone.”

The words are so formal Arthur almost wishes he could take them back. Ray doesn’t so much as glance at him.

“Cheers,” Ray says, and slips out of the flat. 

Stung, Arthur sits down on the sofa to wait for Curt. He picks up the book he’s been reading, a collection of science fiction stories which, he heard, Brian Slade was a great fan of. He can’t concentrate, however: the language is weird and bleak and dense. Maybe he’s just not clever enough to understand. At any rate, he can’t have very long before Curt arrives. 

He stares at the pages without getting anywhere for several minutes. Then he hears a frantic knock at the door and jerks to his feet.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Curt stooped in the doorway, ashen-faced, with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands. Arthur hesitates before greeting him.

“Hey,” he says at length, reaching for Curt’s arm. Curt takes a faltering step inside the flat. A sob shakes him, and he covers his face with his hand. Arthur gapes at him: he can’t help it. He has never seen a man cry before, though he broke down a bit himself when his dad kicked him out, much to his shame. He would never have expected it of Curt, of all people. 

“Sorry,” Curt says, noticing Arthur’s awkwardness. Arthur thinks,  _ Fuck _ , and struggles for words - for anything that might make things better - as Curt pulls away from him and staggers toward the sofa.

“It’s - It’s all right,” Arthur replies, belatedly. “Can I get you anything?”

He watches as Curt pulls a large bag of pills from his pocket, grabs a handful, and swallows them. 

“Water?” Curt asks. His voice cracks. “And - a beer? Please…”

“O - Of course,” Arthur stammers.

He darts to the kitchen and pours a glass of water for Curt, then rummages for a pint of beer. When he returns, Curt has buried his head in his hands, like a small child, and doesn’t acknowledge Arthur. Arthur’s hands grow cold at the sight. He wishes there was something he could do. After all, he  _ loves  _ Curt.

But loving him doesn’t mean he can manage Curt. He learns that quickly over the next few hours, and the days after that, as Curt alternates between catatonic depression, fits of sobbing, and hysterical ranting. The drugs and the alcohol he demands of Arthur calm him somewhat, but there are so  _ many _ drugs that Arthur can hardly be grateful. Sometimes, when the pills wear off, Curt remembers Brian and struggles not to weep, or actually weeps, or flies into one of his rages while Arthur watches from the sidelines. He smashes several of Ray’s ashtrays against the wall, the first one after Arthur tries to get him to calm down, which backfires badly. Arthur recoils from him, cringing, and thinking,  _ Ray’s going to kill me. Please, please stop…  _ Curt eventually does, when his strength gives out on him, or the chemicals kick in, or both. He collapses back onto the sofa, and Arthur gathers up the courage to sit beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, as if he knows what he’s doing. 

Curt starts at the touch. He lifts his head, and stares at Arthur as if he’d forgotten Arthur was even there. Maybe he has. It’s only a few hours after Curt showed up, around midnight, last Arthur looked at the clock, but he has taken enough drugs to forget.

“I just - can’t believe it,” Curt says, his voice thick with pain. Arthur can see dampness on his cheek from tears or mucus. A lump comes into Arthur’s throat. The only saving grace is that Curt must be too fucked up now to notice Arthur’s discomfort.

“I just can’t believe Brian’s gone...”

“I know,” Arthur says. He‘d wanted to  _ go  _ to that concert where Brian was shot. The only reason he hadn’t was that he’d run out of money, and it was a little too close to the start of the Flaming Creatures tour - not that that mattered anymore. “I’m  _ so  _ sorry…”

Curt doesn’t seem to hear him. Arthur wonders if it would be appropriate to rub Curt’s back, if the gesture would be comforting. It’s been a long, long time since anyone gave a damn about comforting Arthur, or tried to look after him; he has forgotten what it’s like. He vaguely remembers his mum doing so when he was small and too ill to go to school. It’s  _ weird  _ and unsettling, knowing he has to take care of Curt now. Arthur can barely take care of himself. He’s much younger than Curt, too. He won’t even turn eighteen until the end of the year, when he knows, from a magazine clipping that he’d had hanging in his old bedroom, that Curt will be twenty-five in April. But despite all that, Arthur has to be the adult - the man - in this situation. 

“It’s like there’s no point to anything,” Curt murmurs. “No point going on. I got no management, no future - and without Brian -”

Arthur bites his lip.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? He’s dead. There’s no chance of anything anymore.” Curt remembers the cigarette in his hand, and puts it to his lips, the gesture clumsy and shuddering. “Not that that was likely. Shit, I can’t believe that the last time I saw him I had this fucking meltdown; I was so mad…”

Arthur can’t help glancing at the shattered ashtray and the fresh dent in the wall across from them, and wincing:  _ he  _ believes it. But he runs his hand along Curt’s shoulder, hating Curt’s despair. He sounds like he might try to hurt himself. Arthur knows he  _ might _ , too. Curt’s famous for being impulsive, and he’s not in his right mind now. He sounds low enough to overdose on purpose, or stagger outside and run in front of a car or something, if he didn’t have Arthur to look after him.  _ Yeah, as if  _ I’m  _ up to the challenge... _

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says again, stupidly. “But you  _ can _ go on.”

Curt takes another drag. “Yeah? What do you know about it?”

“I know that you’re brilliant,” Arthur says. “I know that - bad as this is - you’ve got so much more to say. So much - great music to make. People need to hear it, you know?”

Curt gives a harsh laugh, but says nothing. Arthur stiffens, without daring to move away from Curt. This has to work. Curt  _ has  _ to calm down, no matter how cliche Arthur’s words are. God, can’t he tell that Arthur is being absolutely sincere?

“I mean it,” Arthur says, with growing desperation. “All those kids - your fans - they love you.”

“They won’t if I’m not touring or making new music,” Curt mutters.

“But you can do all that,” Arthur insists. “Really. You’re one of the bravest people I ever heard of, and that means a lot. There - There must be thousands of queer kids who know they’re not alone thanks to you, and who owe you so much. There are so many people who love you.” 

“You’re a sweet kid,” Curt murmurs, exhaling his smoke. “Even if I don’t believe you.”

Arthur stares down at the cigarette in Curt’s hands. He wishes he could smoke, or steal some of Curt’s endless pills, if he knew which ones were stimulants. He’s already exhausted from trying to help Curt, and he doesn’t know if saying what he wants to say -  _ I love you  _ \- will do any good. He doesn’t want Curt to remember such a private confession, either, not yet. The circumstances are all  _ wrong _ to say the words, if men are ever supposed to say them at all. But Arthur knows what it’s like to have a few holes in his memory from drinking too much or overdoing certain drugs, and he’s spent the last few hours watching Curt grab so many pills, they probably would have killed Arthur by now. He doubts Curt will remember this conversation.

“I love you,” Arthur whispers. His face grows hot and he has to keep his voice very low, but he manages it; he forces the words out. “I think I’m _in_ love with you. I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”

Curt gives another humourless laugh. Then he buries his face in Arthur’s shoulder. Stunned, Arthur strokes Curt’s hair, careful of the cigarette, and thinks,  _ God, please forget what I told you. Please don’t hurt yourself and please, please forget. _

Curt passes out soon after that. Arthur’s still holding him, and doesn’t realize for a moment that Curt has lost consciousness or fallen asleep at all. When he does, he grabs the cigarette from Curt’s hand, and stubs it out in the first ashtray he can find that’s still intact. Curt stirs, but doesn’t wake. Arthur considers dragging Curt to the bedroom, but that’s too far, and too difficult, so he settles for easing Curt into a horizontal position on the sofa. Curt jerks his head to one side, still without waking. Arthur sighs. If only he knew what Curt was on. It’s not heroin, which, he knows, has to be injected. Thank goodness for that. He’s quite sure he recognized a few Quaaludes in Curt’s plastic bag of pills. The pills Curt has been taking, however, are all different sizes and colours, and Arthur couldn’t identify most of them, or guess if they’re safe to mix. He likes to think that Curt knows what he’s doing, but that seems far too optimistic for tonight.

Arthur struggles to remember what he’d once heard, years ago, about taking a person’s pulse; he thinks you’re supposed to do it by touching their wrist, so he places one finger across the faint, scarred blue vein running up Curt’s. He can’t feel  _ anything _ , and yet, Curt’s obviously alive. Arthur can hear him breathing; in fact, Curt has started to snore. Arthur tries Curt’s wrist again, and again feels nothing. Arthur gives another sigh, and lets Curt’s hand drop back to the sofa. Even if he had managed to find Curt’s pulse, he doesn’t remember what’s normal or safe. Some help he is. 

Irritated, Arthur gets up and steps into the kitchen. His stomach aches. He supposes he should eat something, since he hasn’t had anything since lunch. That makes him wonder if he should fix something for Curt to eat when he wakes up, too, but he dismisses the thought. Curt doesn’t need anything yet, except rest and someone to keep an eye on him. Besides, there’s not much left in the flat. Why would there be? Arthur and Ray are supposed to be on tour by now. 

He finds a tin of biscuits, a box of Corn Flakes, and a package of cheese which he supposes will make an adequate supper. When he opens the cheese, however, he notices a spot of greyish-blue fuzz growing on it, and wrinkles his nose in disgust. He’ll have to go shopping, at some point. For now, though, he tosses the mouldy cheese in the bin, resentfully, and opens the fridge again. There’s still milk, and a few beers, which is good, since Curt is bound to want more alcohol later. Arthur just hopes that whatever drugs Curt’s taking won't kill him if he mixes them with beer.

Arthur fixes himself a sad supper of biscuits, Corn Flakes, and tea, and eats it alone. For a moment, he thinks of setting the flat in order, but realizes that cleaning is pointless when Curt is still liable to wake up and smash something else. Instead Arthur dumps his plate in the sink so he can check on Curt again, reflecting as he does that his worry is really the only company he has had since Curt called. He doesn’t blame Curt. It’s obvious why Curt is devastated, and it’s not as if Arthur expected them to have sex or to have fun now, as if they were on a date. But tonight’s been worse than Arthur imagined. Arthur had never seen anyone so wrapped up in private, helpless pain before. He doesn’t regret offering to help Curt, though a small part of him wishes he were with Ray and Malcolm and the rest of the band. He wishes he knew how they’re getting on, and how tonight’s show went. More importantly, he hopes they won’t sack him without giving him a chance to put things right. He might know more if Ray were to call him.


	2. Chapter 2

Two more days pass without much change. Arthur gets into a sort of routine, checking on Curt when he’s sleeping (before and after showering or getting any rest himself), and trying to distract him by talking or bringing him food and water and beer when he’s awake and suffering. Ray never calls. Arthur puts off thinking about what will happen to him once the Flaming Creatures tour ends. For now, he has Curt to manage, which is quite enough.

He only leaves the flat once, on the third day. Curt’s asleep, as usual, and there’s really no food left. Arthur doesn’t think he’ll be long, or that Curt will even notice that he’s gone. But he hesitates before going out, and when he does leave, he hasn’t got long before the shops close. He grabs some tins of soup and fish at the grocery store, more cereal and biscuits, and a loaf of bread before the shop boy’s glare makes him uncomfortable. Then he tells himself that it’s just as well he has to be fast, because it means getting home to Curt sooner.

Curt, however, doesn’t see it that way. Arthur senses something wrong as soon as he reaches the flat. He enters, and finds Curt prowling the living room clutching a cigarette between shaking fingers. There’s another broken ashtray at the base of the wall, beside Arthur’s book and Ray’s sad, dying orchid in its pot, which is now shattered into several pieces. _Fuck_ , Arthur thinks. He turns his face away, to hide his disgust. _For fuck’s sake,_ _Curt,_ I’m _the one who’ll have to tidy up…_

Of course, Curt doesn’t notice Arthur’s response, or the paper bags Arthur sets down on the floor, but turns to Arthur with a look of blank shock.

“Where the fuck were you?” he demands.

Arthur’s pulse quickens.

“I just ran down to the grocery store,” he replies. “We were out of everything.”

Curt seems scarcely to hear him, just smokes his cigarette, the muscles of his face taut.

“I didn’t know where the hell you’d gone. You could have fucking told me, you know? You said you’d help me...”

“You were sleeping - as always,” Arthur counters, before regretting his snappish tone, and softening. “I didn’t want to wake you. You wouldn’t have woken anyway.” Arthur believes that Curt is on downers exclusively, or almost exclusively. He’s been sleeping far more than is natural or healthy, and Arthur has wondered several times how much sleep is too much, and when, or if, he might need to call a doctor. “I was only gone a few minutes -”

“I thought you were fucking _leaving_ me,” Curt shouts. He breathes hard, and takes another drag. When he speaks again, he’s incoherent with rage. Arthur stares at the floor. He _hates_ when Curt gets like this. Sometimes he almost worries that Curt might take that anger out on Arthur, and not just the flat. Some of the tabloids implied that Curt’s love affair with Brian ended badly enough to come to blows, and, really, how well does Arthur know Curt? But there’s a childlike fear of abandonment beneath Curt’s rage and his cursing, and he’s been so sweet to Arthur in the past: he wouldn’t do anything like that, would he? Not to Arthur. Besides, judging from the last couple days, he’s more likely to black out and need Arthur to call an ambulance than to catch Arthur off guard with his fist...

“I wouldn’t leave you,” Arthur says as soon as he can get a word in. He wants to add that, since this is _his_ flat, he can’t very well leave it, but holds back: that would be much too cheeky. “I just went to buy food, and I’m here now. I’m only trying to help. Curt -” He holds out his arms to Curt - “Come here.”

Curt looks at him, then goes quiet, and steps into his arms. Arthur kisses him.

“Why don’t we -” Arthur begins. He stops when he notices the stain of blood dotting the sleeve of his jumper. There’s a gash on Curt’s arm which he missed, or which Curt concealed despite his raving and flailing. Curt must have cut himself with a shard from the ashtray or the plant pot, though whether it was by accident or on purpose, Arthur can’t say. _Curt, you idiot_...

“What happened?” Arthur asks.

Curt pulls back. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, you’re _bleeding_ ,” Arthur says, before he realizes that he might set Curt off again if he draws too much attention to the injury. He bites his lip. “Look, I know where the plasters are; can’t I help you clean that up?”

Curt hangs back a moment, considering. At last he bends down, rummages in the mess that was once on the coffee table for his precious bag of pills, and lets Arthur lead him to the water closet. Arthur rinses the cut on his arm, trying not to betray his dislike of blood while Curt stands there impassively. But when Arthur has finished cleaning and covering the injury, Curt raises one hand to stroke Arthur’s cheek. The gesture nearly stops Arthur’s heart.

“Thanks,” Curt murmurs. “I, uh, I shouldn’t have been so mad…” He manages the ghost of a smile, and runs his hand down to Arthur’s collarbone, caressing him. Arthur swallows hard. It’s been so long since he felt close to Curt.

“Bed?” Curt asks.

“Sure,” Arthur says.

It’s a wrench not to drag Curt to the bedroom. Curt, however, is too tired to run anywhere, and Arthur won’t rush him. He tries to be content knowing that Curt wants to be with him again. Curt slips his arm around Arthur’s waist, and, to Arthur’s surprise, quickens his step as they walk down the hall. He says nothing as he turns Arthur toward him and kisses him. The kiss makes Arthur’s whole body warm, though it’s far from the best kiss they’ve ever shared.

“Come on,” Curt says, tugging at Arthur’s jumper before sitting down on the bed. Arthur fumbles to get the jumper off, then joins Curt and puts an arm around him, careful of the new bandage. Curt’s smile broadens into a grin that’s every bit as sweet and as irresistible as all the teasing, seductive things he has said to Arthur before sex in the past, or all the tender things he confided in him after. Arthur kisses Curt again and again. Their hands join for a moment, before Arthur moves his hand to run it along Curt’s body as Curt cups his arse. Arthur’s nerves tingle with anticipation. It’s been too long since they’ve been together properly...

But Arthur hasn't even unzipped his jeans before Curt draws back to prop himself on his elbow, exhausted.

“Here, I can jerk you off,” he murmurs. Arthur can hear the embarrassment in his voice, and tries not to look annoyed. Is it any wonder Curt’s energy is failing, with all the downers in his system?

“All right,” Arthur agrees. “Or - I could do that for you…?”

“No,” Curt insists, reaching his warm fingers down to Arthur’s cock. “It’s okay.”

One lacklustre wank, and he dozes off again. Arthur supposes Curt was generous, at least, not selfish with pleasure like he might have been. Still, Arthur thinks, rolling onto his side, it’s surprising how utterly _useless_ Curt has been for the last few days. Arthur has tried to be very patient in Curt’s time of need, but he can’t help wishing they’d been able to go on for longer. He reaches up to stroke Curt’s hair. Maybe that’s too much to ask, after everything Curt’s been through and all the drugs Curt’s been using to dull the pain. Still, Curt can’t always have gotten like this when things went wrong, can he? Arthur doesn’t think he would have survived, if he did. Curt had told Arthur once about the shock treatment and about how he left home soon after that, as a young teenager. Arthur knew a bit about the shock treatment; Curt talked about it in a song on his first solo album, but he hadn’t realized how young Curt was when he left home - much younger than Arthur. Knowing that had made Arthur feel better about his own family. Now, Arthur wonders how on earth Curt got through those years and became a household name in music, if he just fell apart when times got tough or took enough pills to sleep through everything. Maybe losing Brian was his breaking point, or maybe the drugs themselves have eaten away at his ability to cope over the years.

“You great big useless sponger,” Arthur murmurs, touching Curt’s cheek. “That’s what you are, I’m afraid.” He leans over and kisses Curt. “I still love you, though.”

He _does._ Guilt pricks at him as he imagines the future unfolding over the next few weeks. It feels awfully selfish to try to use Brian’s murder for his own benefit - and yet, Curt obviously needs a lover to be with. He shouldn’t be alone, and Arthur’s right there, alive and in love with Curt, as troublesome as he is. They’d be perfect together. Arthur hopes Curt will see that when he comes down, and hopes he can stave off disaster until then.

Alone and bored once again, Arthur changes his clothes and returns to the living room to tidy up. He turns on the telly, then dumps his boring science fiction book and the smashed ashtray back on the coffee table. The words from the television prompt him to look up. The BBC is playing some sort of documentary about Brian Slade as a tribute. Arthur glances at the screen, then down at the orchid on the floor, and decides that he can get the broom and clean up the dirt from the flower pot later. He settles down to listen to the BBC program with a pang of sadness. After all, there was a time before Arthur met Curt when Brian Slade meant everything to him. He was the first person Arthur had ever heard of who was open about being bisexual, and who talked about it like it was normal and yet, at the same time, the coolest thing in the world. Arthur could never have done that - still couldn’t - though he knows it’s thanks to Brian that he survived living with his parents, and found Curt and the Flaming Creatures and the courage to come to London after his dad kicked him out. The world’s a much worse place without Brian in it.

At least the BBC documentary seems to recognize Brian’s legacy and his importance to his fans. They even interview a few kids about what it’s like to be grieving Brian. One of them, a girl, talks about how lonely she was before she discovered Brian’s music, and how she felt like she’d finally made a friend when she started listening to him. They might as well have interviewed Arthur. He wonders, listening to this girl on the telly, if she’s also gay or bisexual. Then he realizes with sudden embarrassment that there are tears pricking his eyes, for the first time since he heard about Brian’s death. Arthur wipes them roughly. He wishes Curt were, well, more available to talk to him. Curt must have so many wonderful stories about Brian, and they might be able to help each other, if only Curt would share things - if only he weren’t locked away in his own grief and in the drug-induced stupor which can’t be helping him. But Arthur remains alone for the rest of the night, with only the telly to keep him company.

Then the fourth morning comes, and with it the news that Brian’s death was faked. Arthur’s first thought is of the girl on the telly last night, and how she and Arthur and the Flaming Creatures have all been grieving for nothing. _Millions_ of people have been grieving for nothing. It’s a horrible trick for Brian to have played.

Somehow, it takes a few seconds for Arthur to think of Curt, still asleep in the bedroom. Curt can’t have known _anything_ about the hoax. Arthur’s mouth drops open when he realizes how Curt will react to the news - God, is Arthur supposed to tell him? Arthur _can’t_ … He stands up, uneasily, and looks toward the bedroom, but hears no sound. Curt was fast asleep when Arthur checked on him a few minutes ago. He can’t wake Curt to watch something like this. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen, either. They’re interviewing Trevor, Brian’s lead guitarist, who was also ignorant of the hoax. Obviously Brian didn’t tell Curt. It’s going to break Curt’s heart when he finds out.

Maybe Arthur’s wrong to keep the television on to watch the next interview, with Mandy Slade (weeping and cursing - she and Curt are more alike than Arthur realized - though she looks put together, at least, in a ponytail and a tailored leopard skin coat). Maybe he _really_ fails to protect Curt by watching the one after that, with Jerry Devine, Brian’s manager. Jerry seems like the only person who knew what was going on. The interviewer’s quite good, and manoeuvres Jerry into admitting some details of the plan. Arthur is _almost_ getting over the shock when he hears a floorboard creak near the bedroom. The sound makes his blood run cold. He looks up, and sees Curt standing in the little corridor, with a cigarette in his hand and his eyes riveted to the screen.

_Shit_ , Arthur thinks. There’s a heartbeat in which Curt’s silent. Arthur stands up to turn the television off.

“Leave it,” Curt barks.

Arthur turns back to him. “Are you sure?”

Curt scowls and exhales his smoke.

“Yeah - I need to hear what the bastard did to me. How he could do it.”

Arthur puts a hand to his mouth and bites down on a fingernail. It stings; his nails are all bitten down to the quick. He wonders how much of the broadcast Curt overheard. “I’m sorry, Curt -”

“Just fucking _leave_ it, like I said. I have to know.”

But Curt’s relative calm snaps after a few seconds of listening to Jerry. He swears and grabs at the nearest object to hand, the phone, which he launches at the television. Arthur cringes in horror. There’s a dreadful cracking noise that drowns out Jerry’s voice as the screen shatters. _Oh God, no_ , Arthur thinks. _Ray’s going to_ kill _me..._ There’s nothing he can do, though. He lets Curt rage and swear and wreck several other things in the room, and backs into the doorway, his shoulders tensing at Curt’s violence. Again the thought of Curt turning on him flashes across his mind. He tells himself, _I’ve no reason to think he’d hurt_ me. _He’s been fine every time we’ve been together, until now. As for the tabloid headlines about him living up to his surname and the rows he and Brian used to have, I shouldn’t believe them, should I? They’d print anything to slander a world famous gay artist…_  But he doesn’t know what to believe, with Curt raging and screaming in the living room like a tormented animal. Arthur prays that Curt will get tired again, or scream himself out, or turn back into the needy child begging Arthur for comfort. It _has_ worked so far.

He turns from Curt, and slinks back into the kitchen.

*

It takes Curt maybe three quarters of an hour to calm down. Arthur loses track, and gets used to Curt’s swearing and screaming after the first few minutes. In fact, he only notices the sudden, jarring quiet in the flat when Curt stops. Panic clutches at him in the silence. For a second he fears that this is it, that the drugs and Curt’s rage and shock have triggered a heart attack or something. He imagines calling an ambulance and watching them take Curt away, and wishes he knew if they had to call the police, too, in cases of drug-related illness or injury. _Just what I need, being left here to deal with the mess…_

“Curt?” he calls. “Curt, are you okay?”

There’s no answer. He scrambles back to the living room and finds Curt stretched out on the sofa with a cigarette between his lips and a dull expression in his red-rimmed eyes. _Why didn’t you answer?_ Arthur thinks, but bites his tongue.

“Do you want some water?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t know what else to say that won’t set Curt off. Curt ignores the question.

“I should make some sort of statement,” Curt says, his voice hoarse. “About Brian. They’re interviewing all sorts of people; I can’t just lie around, or sit here all day…”

_And yet, you were happy to lie around all week, when you thought Brian was dead._ Arthur frowns, sensing danger. Curt’s in no shape to make any sort of statement, either physically or mentally. Besides, staying in one place where Arthur can keep an eye on him is probably the best thing for Curt right now. Curt must know that deep down. Arthur suspects a trick, a pretext for Curt to go out and score the one drug he hasn’t had for a few days, but might be craving more than ever, given this fresh strain.

“You _can_ stay here,” Arthur says. “I’m not chucking you out. Anyway, a statement can wait, can’t it?”

Curt can barely shake his head. “Everyone else is saying whatever the fuck they want, and I thought I knew him better than anyone - Brian. I thought I knew him.”

Curt’s voice breaks. Arthur sits down on the floor, close enough to touch Curt’s face. He knows he’ll need as much delicacy and cleverness as he’s ever shown to manage this particular challenge.

“You’ve been through so much, though,” Arthur says, stroking Curt’s hair. He doesn’t want to point out that Curt looks too ill to get off the sofa, and was ranting earlier that he has no management anymore, while that fucking grifter Jerry Devine helped Brian commit a sick fraud. “Why don’t you work on something here? I’ll help you write it, and then, if you tell me who to call…”

Curt’s mouth curves into something vaguely like a smile. Arthur supposes that’s a good sign. “What, you’re my publicist now?”

Of course Arthur isn’t. He doesn’t think he _could_ call anyone - some journalist or record company spokesman - if Curt asked him to, not even for love of Curt. He’s shy at his best, and he’s hardly at his best right now: he’s too  _depleted_ from looking after Curt, like the poor, yellowed orchid when it gets parched of water after Ray and Arthur neglect it for weeks while touring. Besides, the work Arthur has done for the Flaming Creatures hasn’t required him to do much talking to people. But Curt doesn’t know all that. Arthur thinks back to something Curt told him once, early on.

“Why not?” he asks, with more confidence than he feels. “You said I should be a journalist or something - that I’m easy to talk to, and I ask the right questions.”

Curt gives him a blank look, which is what Arthur expected. He moves his hand to Curt’s face, running his fingers over the untidy growth of blond beard.

“I didn’t expect you to remember, but you _did_ say it. I’m already working for one band. I _could_ do it, you know - if you want.”

Curt reaches for Arthur’s hand.

“Okay,” he says. “You’re such -” He struggles for words, or perhaps he’s struggling for the strength to speak. Arthur winces despite himself. “You’re such a good kid. No, better yet, you’re like a fucking saint.”

“Thanks,” Arthur mutters, gritting his teeth.

“I - I want to go back to bed,” Curt adds, like a small child asking permission. It’s tragic, and yet, in some small way, it’s heartening, too: Curt must have forgotten his plan to run out and contact the press about Brian. The idea can’t have been some clever scheme to score heroin, then, can it? Not if he forgot all about it within two minutes.

“You don’t have to ask me,” Arthur says, before realizing what Curt needs and looking Curt over to make sure he’s not injured - not bleeding again, or bruised. He doesn’t seem to be; he must simply be too weak and uncoordinated to get off the sofa on his own. _Jesus, how much shit did you take?_ Arthur wonders. _I turn my back for less than one hour…_ He stands up to lean awkwardly over Curt. “Do you need a hand?”

Curt furrows his brow. Despite how fuzzy his brain must be, he knows enough to be embarrassed.

“I’m okay,” he insists, but almost pitches forward onto the floor when he tries to move. Arthur grips his arm.

“Here,” he says, helping Curt to his feet. “Of course you’re cramped; it’s too small for you to lie there comfortably.”

The sofa’s size is far from their biggest problem, but the statement is technically true. Curt’s a little shorter than Arthur, and yet he can’t stretch out fully on the sofa without his feet dangling off the edge. It’s been bothering Arthur all week, when Curt slept there, in that distant, abstract way people notice trivial things during major crises.

“Lean on me. You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

“Thanks,” Curt says. He drapes an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and buries his face in Arthur’s neck. Arthur can’t help wishing Curt would have shaved or, better yet, showered in the days that he has been here. _Then again, if you tried to shower now, you’d probably find a way to drown yourself by accident, and I don’t want that, after everything I’ve done to keep you alive…_ So he bites his tongue once again. He knows Curt will have to come down from this drug binge eventually, and when Curt does, Arthur hopes Curt will appreciate him.

“Do you want some water first? You must be thirsty...”

“I’d have another beer if there’s any left.”

“Sorry,” Arthur lies. “We’re out. You should have water, though.”

Curt hisses in annoyance. “Arthur, I just want beer and sleep -”

_So I play nursemaid for days, and you snap at me for trying to help,_ Arthur thinks, suppressing a scowl.  _Thanks._

“All right, I’ll - I’ll leave a glass by your bedside, okay? For later.” But he already knows it will be pointless. “What were you taking that’s made you so tired?”

“Nothing bad,” Curt says. “Some uppers, some downers…”

Arthur sighs. He knew that already.

“Why,” Curt adds, “you want some?”

“No, it’s fine,” Arthur says, hoping he doesn’t sound like a complete prat. He has tried his fair share of drugs, and he and Ray have their own stash tucked away in a drawer in the bedroom which Curt hasn’t yet discovered or disturbed. In fact, Arthur could have used something to calm his nerves all week, but he’s been afraid to slow down, in case he wouldn’t be there for Curt in time should Curt take sick. _I’ll have earned a fucking medal by the time you come down, you know_ , he thinks at Curt _._ “I’m fine. You just go back to sleep.”

It’s much easier to deal with Curt when he’s sleeping, Arthur reflects as he helps Curt to the bedroom. Curt leans so heavily against Arthur that Arthur almost has to carry him through the little flat, which makes Arthur grateful that the place is as small as it is.

“Do you need anything else?” Arthur asks, once they reach the bedroom.

“No.” Curt doesn’t let go of Arthur’s hand, and tugs him close, almost toppling Arthur over, into bed with him. Arthur pulls back. “Just - you’re perfect. You know that, right?”

Arthur tries to smile at Curt’s words. Maybe Curt appreciates him already: he hopes so.

“Thanks.”

He squeezes Curt’s hand before disengaging from him and turning to the wardrobe. Curt arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back and his apparently infinite supply of pills, so Arthur digs through a drawer for a clean black jumper and a pair of jeans that might fit Curt when he wakes. The clothes aren’t as cool as Curt’s normal outfits, and the fit won’t be right, but they’ll do. Curt will have to change at some point. Arthur turns back to Curt and sets the folded clothes down by the bed. Curt has stretched out on his stomach, his unkempt hair hiding his face and neck. He looks remarkably innocent.

“Goodnight,” Arthur murmurs, despite the midday sun pouring in through a gap in the drapes. If Curt hears him, he doesn’t mind the inaccuracy. Arthur listens for Curt’s steady, rhythmic breathing, and leaves only when he’s satisfied that Curt sounds as well as can be expected.

Arthur cringes at the shattered mess of the television and nudges some shards with his foot on his way to the kitchen. His stomach’s growling; he needs to eat something before he can clean up the flat. He can’t believe Curt destroyed the television. A few ashtrays would have been easy to replace; Ray could hardly have minded that, but the television is a different story. Maybe it’s just as well that Ray hasn’t been in touch. Arthur can’t imagine what he’d say to him. Ray’s been too kind to Arthur for Arthur to wreck his flat, then quite possibly leave him for Curt. Arthur may not be in love with Ray, but he owes him a lot. _And now I owe him a new telly, too,_ he thinks, grimacing. Arthur could barely afford the groceries he bought yesterday; he’ll have to trust Curt to sort this out later. It’s not encouraging, given Curt’s track record of leaving Arthur to clean up his messes.

Arthur makes himself a cup of strong, sweet tea, a bowl of tinned soup, and several slices of toast, and tries not to let the silence in the little flat get him down. Instead, he focuses on happier times with Curt. It’s selfish, of course, but he doesn’t think Curt can forgive Brian now, and with Brian out of the way, Curt might take Arthur more seriously - might even want to date him or live with him. Arthur plans out their future over his lonely meal - touring with Curt, being photographed with him (the thought almost costs Arthur his appetite), Curt protecting Arthur from the press when they get too intrusive, the way Arthur has been trying to protect Curt from himself. Curt _might_. He’s been really sweet to Arthur, in the past. Arthur knows he can’t judge Curt now: he’s too strung out and too angry and sad over Brian. Arthur pictures the two of them talking properly, once Curt has come down. He imagines the sex, too - how good it will feel, and how Curt might hold him afterward. He can still feel Curt lying warm against his back and breathing in his ear, still inside him, like he’d done the first full night they spent together in Curt’s flat. That was the first time Arthur was sure he was more to Curt than some nameless groupie.

But Arthur knows the future might not be that bright or that easy. Curt _could_ simply walk out on Arthur as soon as he’s sober and awake enough to do so, leaving Arthur with a ruined place and no future with Ray or the Flaming Creatures or anyone else. It would break Arthur’s heart if that happened, but there’s nothing he can do: he can’t cage Curt with gratitude or even love. The best he can manage is to shove the thought away and remind himself that it’s a risk he has to take - a risk that he’s happy to take, and that’s worth it, worth all the anxiety and all the sacrifices, because Arthur loves Curt, and more than that, Curt needs Arthur, and no one’s ever done that before.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the companion piece to Ghosts, which I wrote last Yuletide as a treat for Mithrigil. I have wanted to write Arthur's POV on that scenario - Curt being a hot mess after the hoax Brian Slade assassination, and Arthur looking after him - ever since. I initially warned for 'underage' because of Arthur's bragging about the age gap between him and Curt, but deleted it when I realized the UK age of consent is 16 (though it was higher for same-sex activity in the 70's, so Arthur's probably younger than that in canon and most fanworks addressing the rooftop scene). This is still not the healthiest relationship - you probably don't want to 'try it at home' - and is probably even worse when you read it from Arthur's perspective instead of Curt's, hence the litany of warnings.


End file.
